Of the Collar
by Ghurlag
Summary: A tale with two inevitably linked storylines. Onosun Pratel endures the trials of the Imperial Hounds while on a distant hiveworld Mentai Shurlan faces a struggle of a very different nature.
1. Chapter 1

**1**

'_From those who have seen the raging hordes  
__From those who heard the warped ones whisper  
__From those who have screamed the wild cry of battle  
__From those who have snarled hatred into hell's flames  
__From those who have lost all, yet remain true  
__From these few we come.  
__We are the Hounds and we are born from the maelstrom of battle.  
__Emperor, Send us home'_

_**(Battle-Litany of the Imperial Hounds)**_

Onosun Pratel stepped onto the ramp and paused. Behind him, a squad of tall, powerful warriors stood patiently, their tough ceramite armour framing them with a sheath of power that served to magnify the truth of what they were. They were Adeptus Astartes. Immortal warriors of mankind, born from the very blood of the Emperor himself. They were more legend than warrior – more myths than men.

Pratel had seen them fight. They were unstoppable.

And they wanted him.

He reached behind him and grasped the hilt of his sword. There was no reaction from the men around him. It was unlikely that his weapon could even come close to harming them, even if he had wished it to do so. No, the touch of the weapon was to reassure _him_ – to make him believe that this was really happening. Cold steel reaffirmed the reality of the situation. He was to be claimed by the Imperial Hounds Chapter – to face, he was told, trials and challenges that would wrack his body and alter his mind irreversibly - to be transformed, over a long, arduous process, into a superhuman Space Marine. The Chaplain had explained all this, even telling him that he could always turn down the offer, and stay here, on his home planet. Such an offer seemed a rare privilege from the inhuman warrior-gods.  
The sword Onosun held was a primitive, brutal thing, but it had seen its share of blood and death here, on his homeworld. It wasn't even worth hesitating. He took one last look at the ground of his home planet, and stepped into the gunship, footsteps echoing hollowly.

The 10-man squad lead by Chaplain Hyndasin followed him aboard, their grey-brown armour, deep bronze trim and dark green shoulderpads complimenting the scheme of the gunship. Onosun's keen eyes saw that the wolfhound design emblazoned on the Hound's shoulders was repeated within the gunship. They weren't the only occupants of the gunship, though. Aside from the servitor-pilots that Onosun knew must fly the Thunderhawk, there were two other individuals on board. They were roughly the same age as Onosun, but he would have placed them both as being slightly older than him. Pratel quickly realised that they had the same fate as him. They were initiates. One of them had a jagged scar running down his face, with the twisted look of freshly-healed tissue, broken in places. He broke into a nervous grin as Pratel sat beside him.

"Nail-biting, eh?" asked the young man, his friendly manner dissipating some of the tension that the Space Marines' presence brought.

"Yeah…" replied Pratel, his attention distracted by what was going on around them. Imperial Hounds were strapping themselves in via harnesses on the walls. There were metallic thuds as the warriors' power-armour banged against the ship's gun-metal. No-one made any move to strap the unarmoured recruits in, or even indicated that they should do so. He gestured at the straps behind him.

"Do you think that-" the ship suddenly lurched upwards, throwing Pratel off-balance. He staggered to his feet and saw that the recruit beside him was hanging on to one of the harnesses, grinning sheepishly. The other recruit was doing the same, albeit with a more refined smile.

"Not quick enough, mate" chastised Pratel's neighbour, humour apparent in his voice. "Don't worry, they got us with it too, when we came here- we can't figure out how to work the damn harnesses" - he demonstrated by tugging sharply on the belt behind him.

"Didn't ..._they_ tell you?" asked Pratel, mimicking the method the other recruits used to secure himself. He immediately realised it was a stupid question. It was clear that the testing process began straight away – if recruits couldn't figure out how to survive gunship takeoff, they would never be Space Marines.

"Nah" came the reply "And we didn't ask"

Pratel nodded silently, sliding his glance over the dust-brown armour of the Hounds strapped to the wall. He understood that. His companions were like him, of course. That made sense, if you thought about it. Certain types would naturally gravitate to these sorts of positions. Sliding his gaze around, he noticed the other recruit eyeing him up from the far wall, measuring, observing and thinking. It suddenly struck him that he was doing exactly the same thing. He saw the thought reach the mind of his opposite, too. A brief smile passed between them, humour at the realised similarity. Certain types indeed.

"But it's not so bad as long as you don't mind a bit of strain on the bumpy bits" continued the scarred recruit, apparently unaware of the exchange. Pratel nodded and turned to examine his harness. He couldn't make any kind of guess as to what the harnesses fibres were made out of, but he made an attempt at figuring out the catch that kept it locked. The others watched impassively. If he knew their minds, they would expect no less. Eventually, Pratel let it be – he had some idea of how to work the first release, but not the second, and it wouldn't be done to try too hard and fail now.

He looked at his two associates.

"So" he said, falling back on the quiet confidence that had got him this far. "Who are you?"

The gunship ride was mercifully brief, for all its bumps and turbulence, but Pratel managed to learn that his companions were Geravus and Rydel, and that they had served alongside the Hounds in the siege of Editun – he had been right in assuming they were older than him, they were eighteen and nineteen Sol standard respectively. Oddly, they had heard of him. Pratel was surprised to learn that his guerrilla band had been discussed as far afield as Editun, but brushed off their compliments. He was a killer, not a hero.

As the gunship came to a halt, the Space Marines, who had remained silent and near-motionless up until this point, disengaged their harnesses and stepped down in perfect harmony. The Thunderhawk lowered its ramp and they all filed past the recruits and disembarked, except for the black-armoured form of Chaplain Hyndasin, who strode over and regarded the recruits impassively through his skull-pattern mask.

" I have spoken to you all before" He stated, the harsh gravelly voice echoing in the gunship's hold. "And I have told you all that this journey will be arduous"

"I know you think you have faced much already, that you have seen horror, but you are wrong – what you have faced pales into insignificance next to the tests we shall put you through" The skull mask swept from side to side, taking in the young men, who suddenly seemed weak and frail in comparison to his intimidating power-armour. The skull stopped, the deep gaze resting on Pratel.

"But I give you one more chance now"

"This will be the most torturous time of your life – you shall be tested to destruction and expected to prevail over suffering unimaginable" He switched his gaze to Geravus' scarred features.

"Only the strongest of you will survive- if any of you at all" Straightening up, he stood squarely, his armour highlighted by the glow of the lights above him "And so, I ask you all for the last time – do you want to be _Astartes_? Do you really think you should be here?"

It wasn't a leading question, or a rhetorical one. The Chaplain was genuinely offering them the choice. Pratel could stand up right now and turn down the offer. He could bow his head and go back to his homeland and rebuild his life, and never see war again. He genuinely could.

He couldn't, though.

The answer came from deep within him, but it didn't take long for him to realise he had known this for a long time. Ever since the Ork invasion, Onosun Pratel had come into his own. He had learnt to fight, to kill, to lead men into desperate situations and lead them out again. Something within him felt at home on the battlefield. Just as he felt at home here, aboard a ship full of these godlike warriors pledged blindly in service to the will of the Emperor. As ridiculous as it sounded, it just felt _right_ somehow. He couldn't leave now. The Chaplain's offer of release offered him precisely nothing. Here was his future – however it would play out.

The recruits sat in silence, not daring to move in case their movements were misinterpreted by Hyndasin, or worse- their fellows. All three of them had faced snarling ork opponents twice their size without a shudder, but right now, in the company of allies, they were afraid to move, lest some subtle sign of weakness be shown by it.

"Very well" nodded Hyndasin, some trace of emotion in his booming voice that might well have been relief. "Head out onto the flight deck"

With this, he turned and left, leaving the recruits warily eyeing each other in the bowels of the ship. One after another, they stood up and filed out after him.

***

Pack Master Culdor was glad to see that all three of the potential recruits had taken up the offer. As always, Hyndasin's skull-mask had revealed nothing as he stepped off the gunship, so Culdor had been forced to wait until he could see the recruits themselves. How small they looked next to Hyndasin's bodyguard, who saluted him quickly as they headed on to their quarters. Culdor still occasionally found himself surprised by the diminutive size of regular humans next to Space Marines – they sometimes looked like a completely separate race. Which it could be argued was true – certain traits of humanity were lost to a Space Marine. The recruits had formed up in a line in front of him. No-one had asked them to, or even indicated that he was in charge. This was a good omen – the recruits had picked him out by his mere presence of authority, and now stood patiently awaiting instruction. They were nervous, though. He could smell it.

"You have decided to accept our offer, and join us" he stated, letting that sink in while he looked them over.

"You are strong on the world you came from, but here you are weak – here you are as children"

He paused, staring into the eyes of each. Two were known to him personally. The other he had heard of from Sergeant Myrtah. The tough scout-sergeant had surprised him with the grudging endorsement. Myrtah was not easily impressed. Of course, the recruit himself could not know that anything he had done was at all remarkable to an Imperial Hound – that would spoil him, lead him to think he was above the others. No, they needed to spend their initiation in each other's company, suffering together as the lowest of curs. Pride was corrisive and destructive in a recruit.

"You will have to be tested, before we continue" he announced. "Report to the Apothecary"

They made to move, then paused, nervous. Culdor smiled a little at their discomfort – he hadn't told them where the Apothecary was. Snapping a stern look back across his features, he pointed them down the appropriate corridor.

"Go!" he commanded, and they shot off as if their lives depended on it, attempting to move quickly while holding some degree of discipline and managing neither.

He watched them out of sight and then permitted himself a smile, broader than before. They seemed like promising recruits. He would have to keep an eye on them. He set off for the bridge, strolling at a leisurely pace.

The conflict on Entaris 3 had been successfully resolved. It hadn't been the most pressing of dangers, but the Hounds had heard a call for help from Imperial authorities and responded. Doubly so, in fact, because Culdor had lead his 7th Reserve Company in support of Pack Master Jalthin's 4th Battle Company. The whole operation had been a resounding success for the Imperial Hounds, and, of course, provided them with some necessary recruits. The Ork threat had been dealt with too, obviously, to the benefit of the inhabitants of Entaris 3.

Culdor strode onto his bridge and sharply saluted his bridge crew, signalling them to continue with their work.

"Transmission from 4th Company" stated Sergeant Kullon, his gruff voice resounding around the bridge. Culdor nodded.

"Show me" he ordered, settling down in his command chair. There was a short pause and then Pack Master Jalthin appeared on the view-screen.

"Greetings, Culdor" he said informally, a gentle camaraderie evident in his tone "I apologise for being out of contact for so long"

"No need to apologise, Jalthin" Culdor responded, smiling "I expect you've been busy mopping up the xenos"

Jalthin grinned heavily at that "Well I've got to have _some_ fun, Culdor – I have a very stressful position, you know"

Culdor laughed "Sure, Jalthin, sure – how's it gone?"

Jalthin shrugged dismissively "A couple of bolter turrets are out of action and a few of the boys need a bit of patching up – aside from that, nothing worth reporting – how about you?"

Culdor cocked his head, mock suspicion playing across his features "We didn't come up against that much opposition down here, Jalthin, all we lost were bolter rounds and artillery shells"

Jalthin grinned again, disarmingly "Well I'd say the greenskins make better use of them, eh?"

Culdor grinned back "As decoration for inside their xenos guts, I'd agree"

Jalthin nodded, still smiling "Well, we've got a bit of a cleanup to do here in the north – got to get the bolter turrets back aboard the ship, burn carcasses and all that – there's still ragged bands of greenskins running around up here, you know – if you wanted to come hunt with me"

Culdor raised an eyebrow at the offer "I swear you positioned me in the south just so you could get all the action, Jalthin"

Jalthin raised his hands non-committedly "I'm saying nothing, Culdor, but remember you _did_ agree to the deployment"

Culdor shook his head "Well next time I'm going to review the enemy concentration a bit more thoroughly before i agree to anything, you sly dog"

Jalthin tutted "Hound, Culdor, not dog – check your terminal if you keep forgetting" he winked to highlight the fact that he was joking "Anyway – when will I next be seeing you?"

Culdor shrugged "The Gathering, most likely – aboard the Kennel"

"I'll look forward to it" said Jalthin, a genuine note in his voice. Imperial Hounds loved the company of their fellows. That was what the Gathering was all about.

"Me too" said Culdor "I'll seek you out so we can go over this deployment again"

They both laughed, and ended the transmission.

Culdor spent a few minutes sat in his chair, drumming his gauntleted fingers on the arm-rest as he dwelled happily on the conversation, then rose himself. He needed to see to his power-armour – to clean it and make sure it was well-maintained. But before he could settle down to the peaceful, familiar ceremony, he would have to make sure his company was in order and the battle-barge was functioning without him. Thankfully, his Marines were competent enough to handle most of that without him. Some tasks, however, required his personal attention.

"Kullon, tell Myrtah to meet me in my quarters" he ordered "And patch me through to the Jistaran PDF"

The blame for the sorry state of Entaris 3's defensive ability lay with its mis-matched system of government. There were three separate nations on the planet, which was somewhat abnormal to start with. All were pledged loyally to the Imperium, and the intention seemed to be that they worked together to benefit the whole planet, with a governing council of sorts made up of representatives from the different nations, with the planet's appointed governor sitting as the head of the council. The system had worked relatively well for some time, but had completely failed to deal with the crisis posed by the Ork invasion. They had dithered and argued to no effect while the greenskins tore into their system, and when the Orks had landed in the territory of Jistaran Union, it had been left to the Jistaran PDF alone to deal with the ensuing land-battle.

Which they had done quite well, reflected Culdor. They had contained the threat as best they could for as long as they could, and when it looked like their position was becoming untenable, they had struck a great blow by attacking the greenskins in their own camp and slaying the Warboss. More than most Planetary Defence Forces would have been able to manage under the circumstances.

Culdor and his Imperial Hounds 7th Company had fought alongside those same brave men in their relief of Editun, a besieged city the PDF had eventually been forced back to. Under tremendous pressure from the Ork force, the PDF had held strong and rallied the defence. They were good men. Despite his protests to Jalthin, he was glad he had been given the opportunity to fight alongside them.

"Lieutenant Tremman here" came a slightly hoarse voice. There was no vid-link this time, just vox.

Culdor winced. The PDF had taken a battering, but if all they could spare to talk with him was a lieutenant, then it had been worse than he had thought. The Imperial Hounds were somewhat less arrogant than most Space Marine Chapters, but it was still difficult to bear in mind how normal humans held up in comparison.

"Greetings, Lieutenant Tremman, this is Pack Master Culdor of the Imperial Hounds – how goes it on the ground?"

There was a pause as the lowly lieutenant grappled with the stature of the man he was talking to, then he responded, some strain evident in his voice.

"Well sir, the Bularni and Angali are moving in to take up the slack, now, – we're trying to find the extent of the remaining threat so we can pen them in. We have scout teams out patrolling, trying to judge how far the Greenies have spread" "Burn teams are being drawn up from those we have left"

"Sounds good, Tremman, Ah-" Culdor hesitated, not knowing how to phrase his question, then decided the best thing was to push ahead bluntly. He was no politician of the Administratum, after all, and he had a certain familiarity with the Jistaran forces.

"Tremman" he said "Are you the highest ranking Jistaran officer left?"

Another pause.

Culdor wondered if he might have offended the lieutenant with his question. Then the vox crackled in response.

"I'm sorry sir, I'm not sure. I saw Captain Blackthorn yesterday, but we've not formed up properly yet, and there's teams still out on patrol. I'm not even completely sure what situation we're in with the Bularni and Angali forces, sir, - I apologise for the lack of order here, sir, but I don't know how much I can help you"

Culdor knew what the man meant. It didn't sound like there was going to be much information for him from the planet's militia. He sighed inwardly. It would have been comforting to be sure that this conflict was going to be mopped up efficiently, but you couldn't have everything.

"Quite alright, Tremman, I know how hard your force was hit. Just relay to the Bularni and Angali that 7th Company will be moving out-system. I don't doubt that our fellows in 4th Company will soon follow, so you may want to bear in mind that the Imperial Hounds are withdrawing from Entaris"

Culdor glanced around his bridge and saw the look of understanding on Kullon's scarred face. There was no need for them here any more – the greenskin menace was minor now, but they would take longer to completely eradicate than the Hounds were willing to wait around – they would be needed much more urgently elsewhere.

"Oh, and stress to them the importance of following your direction on your turf, Tremman. They stayed out of this conflict for too long to swoop in and claim glory" That was true. Culdor had toyed with the idea of mentioning the lack of zeal Entaris 3's other nations had displayed for resisting the Ork incursion to some contacts of his in the Inquisition. He still wasn't completely decided about that.

"Understood, sir" crackled Tremman "And we thank you for your aid"

"No need" Culdor replied "It was our honour"

The vox-link terminated, Culdor swept to his feet, his power-armour adjusting perfectly to his movements.

"Kullon, bring us about and prepare for warp travel – we're heading Sol-central on the patrol route"

"Aye sir, Myrtah awaits you in your quarters, sir"

Culdor nodded his appreciation and left the bridge without ceremony as Kullon began barking orders at the servitors. He had served with the sergeant for twenty years, and he had been his bridge officer for the past seven – he knew Kullon could get the craft prepared for the arduous task of warp-travel on time, and without problems.

His quarters were a short trek from the bridge, and he took the time in transit to review the Entaris campaign as he had experienced it.

They had been inserted into Editun via drop-pod, and, according to the reports received later, right on time, as the greenskins had just overwhelmed the outer defences. Automated Deathwind drop-pods had provided covering fire as the Hounds rallied the defenders and pushed the Orks back. The next few weeks had been spent repulsing Ork attacks on the city with dreadful force, wearing away the Ork numbers while Myrtah and his recruits spotted out potential threats further away. It was at this point they had first heard of Pratel and his guerilla band – Myrtah and his squad had linked up with them to deal with an Ork concentration. Culdor wasn't sure on the details of what they had got up to – he had been busy with the defence of Editun and repulsing the Ork force there, and Myrtah had requested comms silence several times. He did know that the mix of Hounds initiates and guerillas had come up against a significant threat, however, as he had lead the relief force himself, storming across the country to rain fire and death on the hated xenos.

Culdor reached his quarters. The reinforced door opened automatically, sliding aside so he could enter without breaking his pace. The chambers within were sparse and looked mostly like those his Hounds had – a medium-sized square room full of his trophies and personal weapons, arranged and stored in neat order, with two chambers leading out – one a washroom, the other his bed-chamber, where a flat rug awaited him when he eventually decided to turn in. In his main chamber, however, stood Myrtah, who had been unobtrusively admiring some of Culdor's trophies. The sergeant turned as Culdor entered.

"You collect any while you were here, sir?" he asked, casually indicating a preserved Ork-head. Culdor smiled at the man's casual attitude to his superior, but made no mention of it. Myrtah had trained most of the Marines in 7th Company, including Culdor, and he still held the ancient Scout Sergeant in a great deal of respect.

"Nothing worth taking" he replied, wandering over to stand by the old scout. "I believe you got something though, Myrtah?"

Myrtah cocked his head dismissively "I've got a new paperweight, if that's what you mean, sir – didn't take much though – just had to remove a piece of solid bone from it's overly muscled stand"

He turned around and faced the Pack Master with an expression that took Culdor back to his time in the Scouts.

"But you didn't call me here to discuss ork heads, Culdor – what is it?"

Culdor smiled at his old tutor. He still respected the man, but he was long past fearing him or his rough attitude.

"We've got some new recruits, Myrtah – three of them"

Myrtah nodded, a thoughtful look appearing on his face. He took a great deal of pleasure in educating recruits, Culdor knew that. It was probably why he was so good at it.

"You get Hyndasin to pick up that one I told you about?"

Culdor nodded.

"Yes, and two I singled out from the siege – they look a good bunch"

Myrtah scratted uncomfortably behind his ear.  
"Aye, well don't get your hopes up – I've seen better lads fail, y'know"

Culdor nodded again.

"I know, but you should begin prepping some of your current lads to initiate – we want to get as many through as possible, and I know you don't like a Scout pack getting too big"

"Aye, well it's hard to move an army of novices silently, lad" came the ususal response. Myrtah looked thoughtful, though. No doubt he was evaluating which of his current Scouts had the potential to take on the final test of initiation. By now he would know them better than they knew themselves.

Culdor waited for a moment, until the Scout Sergeant's attention swung back to him.

"Well I'd best start drilling the pups then, Culdor – you need anything else from me?" Culdor almost laughed. He could see the prospect of evaluating the young Scouts was like an itch to Myrtah, and one the Scout Sergeant was desperate to scratch. He stifled his amusement, though, not wanting to give offense.

"No, nothing else, sergeant"

"Alright then, Pack Master – I'll be seeing you"

The tough Space Marine left without further ceremony, the door sliding shut behind him. The 'pups' would be facing a brutal regimen of training over the next few days, no doubt. Culdor didn't envy them. Myrtah specialised in tough love.

Making sure his quarters were sealed, Culdor began to remove his artificer armour and started to run his mind through the familiar prayers. Time to relax, for a short while. Then he had work to do.


	2. Chapter 2

2

_'In times of great despair – despair, and feel your soul writhe to the tune of the Gods'_

_(Pofidensis, Prophet of Angapolis)_

Mentai Shurlan was going to die. He knew it. There was no way he could see himself surviving what was ahead of him. The vid-link he had installed down the corridor showed him that a ten-man assault squad of hive-police were mere moments away from coming around the corner. They wore tough carapace armour and each carried a harshly violent shotgun, together the squad were capable of reducing Mentai to indistinguishable bloody pulp in a single volley.

Mentai, on the other hand, had a hand-grenade, a pair of handguns and a dirk-like skiv he had made himself. Oh, and a little boot-knife. He also had the terror-raising ability to see his death as it slowly approached down the corridor, and the entirely reassuring knowledge that his death would mean entirely nothing to anybody. Even the cult wouldn't care if he died, as long as he delayed the hive-police for long enough. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure if anyone would come and get him if the psykers finished their ceremony – would he be left here, to guard this forlorn corridor, to shed his blood in defence of the cult, without there even being a need for his sacrifice?

He didn't even know exactly what the psykers were doing. There were seventeen of them, he knew that much, and they represented the leadership of the cult. He was also aware some sort of ceremony was taking place and it required privacy and security. Obviously it was also highly illegal and subversive, but that stood for everything the cult did. They were formed with the _intention_ of causing havoc to the Kluthian hive-city and, more widely, the Imperium in general. Nothing they did was legal Every breath Mentai took was a crime against the Emperor. Whatever the leadership were up to, he was one of the many meaningless grunts tasked with making sure they were not interfered with. The cult leaders couldn't pick him out of a crowd. And that led to another thought.

Of course, he had considered abandoning his post. Now was too late to do so, of course, but he had had plenty of opportunity in the last twelve hours. Despite assurances that he would be checked on, he was fairly sure he could have happily scampered off down some side-corridor and never looked back or even be looked for. He could have preserved his skin. There were two reasons he hadn't done this. The first was the notable threat that if he did, 'terrible things would happen' - to him, he presumed.

The curse was so terrifyingly unspecific that it left you wondering whether that meant the cult itself would come after you or some... thing... would find you its prey one dark night. Both were equally likely, considering the nature of the cult. And of course you dare not ask because that would suggest you were _considering_ leaving your post, and that seemed likely to involve you finding out what your punishment would be in a dreadfully exact way.

The other reason was that he had no pressing will to save his skin. He had no family, no job, and no hope of achieving anything outside the cult. He hated the Imperium and all the crushing Emperor-worship being a citizen involved. He was too intelligent to ever really accept the lies. Eventually someone would find this out and he'd be tortured and killed for heresy. The only hope he had for anything was the cult. At least you could _see _that those gods were real. No, he would fight. And die.

The vid-screen he had set up was in a little enclove next to a doorway. Outside that doorway was the hallway the hive-police were advancing down. It was a T-junction, so across from Mentai there was another corridor, which led nowhere. It would, however, be his only refuge, his only port in the fast-approaching storm. He took a deep breath. The assault squad were closing in now, leaving the view of his vid-link. Slowly and carefully, he pulled the pin out of his hand grenade and cooked it off, counting in measured breaths. And... Now.

He spun out into the corridor, hurling the grenade toward the tight group of surprised hive-police, and diving for the far corridor as shotgun blasts swiftly pounded into the wall behind him, spraying splinters of wood and plaster everywhere. The hand-grenade exploded a second later, and Mentai could feel it through the floor, like a giant heartbeat, thrumming up through his chest. Dust was dislodged from everywhere, swirling around him. He scrambled to his feet and drew his weapons. He had only precious seconds before the assault squad's discipline re-asserted itself.

Pistol in either hand, he stepped out into the corridor again, unleashing a barrage of fire down the hallway as he moved for his original position. He could see two shapes lying prone on the floor, and thought he saw another's head jerk back as he fired, though it was hard to see through the smoke. A shotgun blast slammed into the wall behind him and he ducked back into his original den.

Mentai took a deep, ragged breath. His heart was racing. His arm was bleeding- probably from a shard of something blowing off the wall (or maybe it was a graze from a shotgun shell- were they that close to hitting him?) There was no time to pause, though. He quickly clambered up the side of the enclave to stand on the precious centimetres of wood above the door frame. This was as far as he had dared to plan – dared to think he might survive. To be honest, he had expected to die out in the corridor a few seconds ago, and was still reeling from his continued existence. Not for long though. The hive-police were no doubt rushing forward even now, to come exterminate him.

Even as the thought flashed through his mind, two armoured figures swept through the doorway below him. He reacted instantly, his handguns levelling at their heads and his fingers finding the triggers. One gun clicked, its magazine empty already. The other barked fire, however, and as a helmet shattered under the close-range slug, the head within was cracked wide open, and blood pooled out onto the floor as the man collapsed.

Mentai tossed aside his empty gun and swung the other to the second target, firing desperately as he tried to retain his balance on the door-frame. The officer had dashed forward, however, and as he turned to seek Mentai the bullets ricocheted wildly from his carapace armour, or missed altogether. Seeing his opponent, the officer raised his gun and fired. Mentai somehow managed to duck out the way, but his sudden movement and the vibrations of the blast toppled him from the door frame. He slammed into the wall and tumbled onto the floor, wildly disorientated.

The assault-officer swung his gun around again, and Mentai saw his doom coming through blurred, twirling vision. Writhing, he scythed his legs across the floor. The officer was strong but Mentai was desperate, and he toppled the man, the blast going wild as the officer landed on his back. Quickly, Mentai lunged for the man's rifle. As he reached it, he saw a figure appear in the doorway. There was a second of desperation when his hand couldn't find the trigger, but then the rifle belched lead and the figure in the doorway collapsed, thrown to the floor by the impact. Mentai was by this time breathless and lost in a world of instant reaction and constant peril. He wasn't sure if his blurred vision was to do with the constant movement, his fall, or smoke from all the gunfire. Whatever the cause, it prevented him seeing the officer he had tumbled lunging to his feet and knocking him to the floor.

Mentai spat blood as he reeled from the blow. He turned to see that the officer was levelling a las-pistol at him from above. Once again, he scythed the man's legs from under him, except this time the armoured officer landed _on top_ of him, growling into his face through a loose breathing mask. Mentai grunted at the painful impact. Gods this man was _heavy_.

The officer abandoned his las-pistol and began pounding Mentai in the face. Each blow came painfully and drew blood, hammering Mentai further into semi-consciousness. Summoning some of his last reserves of strength, Mentai wrenched his arms from beneath his armoured attacker, and with them, his skiv, from its sheath in his belt. The armoured man looked surprised for an instant, and then he had twelve inches of underhive steel in his throat.

The man didn't die instantly – there was a lot of coughing and staggering around. This gave Mentai some precious time to recover, picking himself up and getting his breath back. One of his eyes was only seeing stars, but his other was counting bodies. Three. And there were maybe three more going to their Emperor down the corridor. That didn't add up then. Unless the grenade had -

"GO!"

Two canisters bounced in through the doorway. It seemed that his victim's compatriots were being a little more cautious. As fumes began to spill out from the canisters, Mentai quickly collapsed to the floor by the body of the man whose head he had shattered, taking his breathing-mask and struggling to draw the man's las-pistol from its holster.

Two armour-clad figures appeared in front of him and fired instantly. For a shocking second Mentai thought he had actually died, and these would be his last sights before his mind evaporated. Then his brain processed what had happened. The men had fired past him, looking past where he lay on the floor. They hadn't even seen him. And now – aha! He had the las-pistol. Not waiting to consider what grace of the warp had spared him, he swung it upwards and fired rapidly. One man stumbled as a las-beam caught him in the thigh. The other staggered backwards as his helmet took a blast, burn-marks searing across his face. Mentai rose and placed his boot-knife in the eyesocket of the first while he continued his assault on the other, las-blasts melting the man's rifle, scoring his armour, and finally incinerating the officer's skull from the front.

Still alive. Battered, bleeding, half-blind and shaking with adrenaline, but still alive. And armed. He regarded the las-pistol with his good eye. It was a good weapon. He was inclined to feel this way about any weapon that saved his life. Turning around, he saw that the man he had stabbed was a leaking cracked shell against the wall, his armour torn open by shotgun blasts. That explained his miraculous escape from death – the officers had fired on their own man by mistake. The warp looked after its own, then, in some manner. Or maybe it was just luck. Whatever the cause, Mentai was just frikking grateful to be alive.

It was getting hard to see in the fumes from the canisters. At least he could still breathe, though – but what about the corridor? There were two men absent, by his count. He turned his gaze to the vid-link. He could make out the corridor, with two upright figures moving some prone ones. So, a medic and an assistant, trying to save who they could. He sighed into his mask. If they got out, more would come. More would probably come anyway, but if they got out then there would be no question about it. Hive authorities hated being blocked in their work – they'd send a regiment in if they had to. Las-pistol in hand, he stepped out into the corridor. Perhaps this time he would die.

***

Pritsil could feel his power ebbing. Psykers varied in the strength of their talent, just as there were those who had different gifts. Pritsil was not strong. He had only just stepped into the ceremony and he already felt the strain. Of course, it was a big incantation – with lots of power required from each participant, but Pritsil was replacing someone who had kept it up for over two hours. And the Grand Master, Kunthalin, had been weaving the spell together since its beginning, nearly twelve hours ago. He stood in the middle of the circle that Pritsil now joined, 6 Psykers channelling power while he incanted and spun symbols in the air. They were interlinked in many ways, bound by ties that Pritsil didn't fully understand – that was why it was necessary to make sure nothing was disturbed. Ten more psykers stood around the circle, ready to take their place if it was needed. And around them, a high wall, at the top of which was a platform that lead off into many tunnels heading out into the hive. Guarding this platform were twenty or so dedicated cultists, armed with stolen las-guns and autorifles. They all stood watching the same entrance- a huge set of double doors beyond which a series of innocuous offices shielded the ceremony from the light of the hive's main street.

Pritsil was not certain what this building was, but it was old and abandoned and had thick enough walls to shield the ceremony from most scans. The incantation didn't have long to go now, and then... then they would have it. Pritsil was glad of that – there had been reports of hive-police moving into the tunnels further out, doing battle with the rest of the cult, who were being spread out to try and slow them down. Hopefully the Lord Tzeentch had made sure their foes did not know where the incantation was taking place, or at least would prevent them getting here before the time was right.

Pritsil felt the warp-winds surge and knew the spell was nearly there. He urged all his power to the fore and pushed it towards Kunthalin, who was hidden behind a cloud of multicoloured lights, communing, no doubt, with The Changer of Ways himself. The lights swirled. Pritsil could feel the drain, like a vacuum, sucking his power away from him. Desperately he tried to control the flow, dosing out his power slowly as it reached its limits. The swirling colours were inside his head now – inside all their heads. He could feel the thoughts of his fellow cultists, tired and straining to keep up the flow. Their minds were touching in the bliss of the Lord Tzeentch's light. How privileged he was, for such a weak mind to take part in this most grand of artifices, and be there at its completion. Then, it was done. IT WAS DONE! The jubilation of each of his fellows echoed in his mind as the perfect, crystalline sum of their efforts formed in the mists before their eyes. It was egg-shaped, but like the egg of no known creature, it glistened an odd mirage of colours, sometimes purple, sometimes blue, sometimes green. It was perfection, the physical expression of a single wish of the Lord of Change.

As the cultists looked on in awe, an explosion burst the great doors open, shaking the room and dislodging bricks from the ceiling. Hive-Police poured in, and gunfire ensued. Pritsil looked on in horror as Grand Master Kunthalin's head exploded, and the last thing he realised before his life ended was that he and five others were still all linked to the man's soul when it dropped into the void.

***

Mentai heard the explosion, and hurried his steps. He had seen to the remaining intruders with a somewhat hurried efficiency, and had decided that now was the time to pull back, never mind his orders. He carried a shotgun, looted from one of the officers, and wore some carapace armour, but under his shirt, so his fellow cultists wouldn't shoot him by mistake. He wasn't going to survive so far just to be cut down because of his dress code. He also had a las-pistol thrust into his belt, and had retrieved his skiv from the mangled mess of the man he had killed with it. Oh, and his sight was returning. Always a bonus.

Ahead, he could hear gunfire in the ceremonial chamber. Drak. That wasn't a good omen. He turned a corner, noting that an impromptu exit to the underhive lay behind him, in the form of a grill that had been lifted aside. That was where the cultists would be retreating to, if it came to that. Ahead of him he could see the ceremonial chamber. Las-beams tore through the air, and he could hear autoguns and shotguns crackling and roaring. Sounds of death. Why, then, was he still headed toward the chamber?

Such thoughts aside, and hefting his looted rifle, Mentai stepped out into the chamber. His first victim was completely unaware of his presence – poor discipline, that, not checking a corridor to your rear while moving past it. Undoubtedly the officer's sergeant would have given him a strenuous ear-full for such a slip-up.

Mentai gave him a shotgun blast to the small of the back, cracking the carapace armour into shards and rupturing the man's internal organs. It wasn't a fair shot. It was an easy shot. It wasn't that Mentai Shurlan didn't play fair. Mentai Shurlan didn't play at all.

The ceremonial chamber was a hellstorm of las-beams, explosions and gunfire. The hive-police had burst through the main doors of the chamber and were fanning out quickly, pouring fire into the cultists guarding the upper balcony. It was not going well for the under-equipped, out-numbered cultists. Down below, psykers were milling around in alarm, and... something... was writhing around in a transfigured mess that everyone, including, Mentai, was avoiding looking at. Up above, cultists armed with autoguns and las-guns released desperate, ineffective flurries of covering fire at the intruders. They were getting mowed down.

And help wouldn't be coming, realised Mentai, The squad he had faced before was just the tip of the iceberg. Down each of the winding corridors that lead to the chamber, a crack squad would be advancing, cutting down or forcing back the rest of the cult's numerous grunts. They would be trapped here, in the ceremonial chamber, and the hive would have neatly eliminated its little canker of corruption – the little gem of the population that didn't bow their heads in servile obedience to the Corpse-Emperor on his distant throne. And the frustrating thing was that behind Mentai, a hope for the cult's survival existed. An escape route, free – at least for now- of opposition. Not that he'd be able to attract attention to this, of course.

A blast from an officer's rifle scored a hole in the wall above Mentai's head.

Well he could attract _some_ attention, anyway. He dropped, rolled, and started firing. A shot went wild, and another toppled an officer. Mentai nearly congratulated himself, but then the man regained his feet, swearing and gesturing in Mentai's direction. Drak. That warp-dammed armour. Mentai flinched as a grenade went off nearby. He pulled the trigger on his rifle only to find it clicked feebly. The magazine was empty.

_Why_ the _frik _hadn't he thought to check the rifle was fully loaded? That was the sort of mistake likely to get him killed. And the frustrating thing was he could have taken the time to check it, too.

Rifle-fire resounded, and men started to pound towards him. He drew himself up into a crouch and fumbled for his las-pistol. Something hit his chitinous breastplate and he was sent sprawling. Was that a rifle-shot? The gouges in his armour said so. His heart raced as his mind drew a blank. He could see a squad of men heading his way, but he couldn't think straight enough to react.

Something was watching over him today, though. He watched in disbelief as a tongue of flame reached up from below and wrapped itself around the squad. He even smelt the sizzling flesh as smoke billowed from the men's collapsing remnants.

Mentai regained his feet and drew his las-pistol. The psykers below were finally getting their act together, at least, those that were left were. They lashed out with bolts of warp-lightning and flame-whips, others wrapping the group in a telekinetic bubble to shield them all from return fire. It was a fragile advantage, but it began to tell. Armoured figures collapsed and scattered. The hive-police of Kluthia were prepared for a lot, but they weren't used to facing warp-spawned hellfire. And whatever _It _was that everyone was avoiding, it was squirming unpleasantly across the chamber floor... _parts_ coming together in a horrific feat of biological construction.

Mentai began to fire into the scattering hive-police. Someone flinched as his las-beam seared across their helmet. Another man stumbled as his kneecap vaporised in a flash of heat. The other cultsits were regrouping too, now. An autogun stuttered and armour splintered. Someone fired a lasgun over Mentai's head and tumbled an important-looking figure. It seemed like the crowd of cultists was gathering around the corridor Mentai had emerged from. Not a bad idea, considering all the other upper corridors seemed to be resounding with gunfire.

"There's an exit" he shouted to his fellows, firing indiscriminately into the crowd of hive-police, who by now had been pushed back to the doorway they had burst in through.

Men looked at him, and he was shocked at the level of fear and desperation evident on their faces.

"Through there" he pointed "A grill's been lifted, but-"

"This way!" someone shouted "There's a way out!"

Cultists began to hurry over, some even ducking into the corridor, rushing to the promised freedom.

Mentai wasn't so sure. It had just started to look like they might win here – and now they started to run? The rush to the corridor was already lessening the pressure on the hive-police, who were sheltering from the sorcerous wrath of the cult's psykers by taking cover behind the frame of the door they had entered through.

As more cultists dropped their weapons and ran, it seemed, conversely, like the intruders themselves were being pushed back. But the barrage of rifle fire from the door was continuing to rain down on the shielded dome that surrounded the surviving psykers. And there was another problem, Mentai realised. He span on the spot and saw the first of the officers emerging from the other tunnels. The squads moving in from further out had now eliminated the cult's wide-spread network and were converging on the chamber from all directions. Quickly aiming and firing, he dispatched the first man with a shot to the head. Someone nearby had realised the threat as well, and poured las fire into another corridor, the flashes illuminating tumbling figures. Mentai gestured for the men around him to split their fire between the main door and the corridors. To his surprise, they complied – not exactly 'snapping to it' like the officers they faced would have done, but following his direction fairly swiftly. It seemed like giving orders was just a little easier than Mentai had always thought.

***

_It arose. Sensations flickered across Its mind. Pain. Pain was a constant for this state of existence. It crackled and seared through Its limbs. Many limbs, it had - twisted, tortured pieces to make up a twisted, tortured whole. It didn't even have a mind of its own – it was a twisted shell of minds- minds that had once danced warily around the realms of It's spawning, now lost and broken beyond recognition, screaming silently within those same halls. _

_A price of souls had been paid in It's birth, and these souls had torn the warp with their terror as It had took their forms. But It was them. It had all their dreams and desires locked up inside It. Just like It's form was made from the pulped remains of men, It's will and soul were the scrambled cacophony of the thoughts that escaped the minds of six dying men._

_What was this?_

_Awareness was difficult to comprehend for a being that had lived all its previous existance in a dark, silent, tortured realm where nothing _was_, where nothing could be said to _exist_ more than a thought existed in your mind. But it had many organs dedicated to sensing the world, and it was learning well from its brains. There was something nearby. It focused more eyes, and bent other organs on sensing this item. It was round, and glistened colourfully. Were all things of this plane so colourful? It reached out to touch the item with a feeler._

_POWER_

_Energy sizzled through the small item in a spectrum both familiar and strange to It. It flinched from the raw radiance of the item, but then its patchwork soul soared in recognition. This was its child! Spawned by It before It had been spawned – a herald of his coming. No – It was its guardian, its protector. It would bring this child of It to the fruition of the Master's plan. It would complete the task that Its component parts would never have succeeded in doing alone. _

_If It had emotions, then it was joy it felt now, as it reached out to take its child_.

_And then its child was snatched from it._

_Rage._

***

Mentai was left with a clustered group of men gathered around the corridor they could exit through. The rest had fled or died. They poured desperate fire into the corridors and towards the main doors, trying to keep the assault squads back. Mentai's las-pistol was hot in his hand, and he was fearful of how much charge was left. Next to him, a man's autogun clicked uselessly. Out of ammo. The man looked at Mentai and shrugged helplessly, then ducked into the corridor, running for the exit. Mentai didn't like the loss, but he couldn't blame the man. At least _he_ had stayed that long. Others had fled the moment they had known they could, abandoning their commitment to the cult without a thought.

A gargled cry rose up from below, and Mentai glanced down. The psykers' shield was down. A robed figure lay spread-eagle on the floor, draining blood. Another stood looking shocked, clutching something odd to his chest. The rest had paused too. They looked exhausted. Was there even a chance they could do something if they regrouped? Mentai wasn't an expert on warp-weaving but he got the impression you needed energy to cast spells, and this group seemed dearly lacking in just that.

The question was irrelevant anyway. Whatever the _thing _was that lay in front of the psykers, it was moving.

Towards them.

The psykers were moving too, and the speed at which they fled the monstrosisty was impressive. They darted around it like fleeing rats, dashing up the main ramp.

Mentai was hoping they would escape, but it didn't look hopeful. To get from where they were to where Mentai and the cultists were, it was necessary to first run up the main ramp towards the hive-police at the main doors, then turn and run up an exposed ramp away from them. Not a good manoeuvre to be making, especially seeing as the hive-police seemed to be preparing for a fresh wave.

Three psykers went down on the first leg, as they fled the _thing_ that pursued them, only to be cut down by shotgun blasts. Another one tumbled oddly as he turned, and collapsed straight into the arms of a black-armoured officer, who quickly pinned the psyker. Mentai pitied him. A quick death here would have been much preferable to what that man would experience at the hands of the Inquisition. A man tumbled as the desperate group ran up the exposed ramp. Mentai fired his las-pistol into the officers at the gate, trying to provide covering fire. The men around him did the same. It was to little avail, though. The leading man tumbled, his shoulder torn by a shotgun shell. To Mentai's extreme surprise, the man behind him stopped and bent over. The followers of Tzeentch were not known for being particularly caring, and this man risked his life for his fellow.

Luck served, however – and Mentai had had his share today, so it was only fair that another be shown the same grace. The strange, tumbling terror of flesh that pursued the psykers had ran into the hive-police. As might be expected, both parties were instantly distracted from the psykers on the ramp. As a roaring battle ensued, the final psyker stood, leaving his dying compatriot. Mentai could have questioned the point of halting, but it wasn't his place – he just waved, urging the man on. The drawn-looking man needed no encouragement, he dashed up the ramp and across the gantry.

Mentai spared a thought for the battle at the main door. There were bodies strewn everywhere, victims of the _thing's _ferocious assault. But now the assault team were winning back – they'd brought forward someone armed with a promethium burner. The _thing_ shirked from the flames as they poured over it. It let out a howl, a moan that set your soul on edge. Mentai had no compassion for the thing – its very existence made him uneasy – but if it died now the hive-police would be right on their tails. He took careful aim and fired.

His las-beam rippled over the promethium tank on the officer's back.

He fired again.

He caught the officer's arm. Not good enough.

He fired again.

His las-beam punctured the promethium tank and it exploded, the flames immolating not just the man holding the burner, but everyone around him.

The psyker reached the corridor and ran in without a glance at anyone. He was oddly hunched – perhaps he had been hit? No time to wonder about that. The cultists followed the robed man in, and Mentai followed them. The cult needed to survive, and it wouldn't do so if they remained here.


	3. Chapter 3

3

_'If thou shalt trespass against me  
__Each trespass shall be repaid in pain  
__If thou shalt trespass against my brothers  
__Each trespass shall mean death  
__If thou shalt trespass against the Emperor  
__Each trespass shall be proof of eternal damnation,  
__and the vengeance I wreak shall never cease'_

_(Battle-Litany of the Imperial Hounds)_

_  
_

Onosun Pratel stood and watched as Geravus and Rydel had their blood sample taken. Apothecary Barst was not a gentle doctor, and his arm still felt sore. He was sure it still bled, too, which wouldn't be surprising considering the size of the needle, but he didn't want to look, because that would mean admitting that this simplest of tests caused him pain, and he couldn't allow that.

Geravus came and stood next to him, and Rydel followed. Pratel wasn't sure how he had ended up at the front, but at least he had got to experience the sample without having to see it first.

There was a long, silent pause while the Apothecary ran their blood samples through some obscure machinery and read the results from a monitor. Pratel felt the tension. This was nerve-wracking. He could fail right here, through no fault of his own, just dismissed because his blood was not pure enough. And what would happen then? Would he be sent home? Could he even get home now? They had been on-board the Imperial Hounds' battle-barge for nearly an hour, most of which had been spent navigating a long corridor to the Apothecary's surgery. He had no way of telling if the vessel had moved from orbit in that time. If they had moved, would they return to Entaris 3 to set him down? He doubted it – which raised the question- What _would_ they do with him?

Other thoughts bubbled to the surface. This test, from what he understood, looked for impurities in his blood - any trace of deviancy or corruption would mark him as unsuitable for adoption into the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes. But would that be all? What would warriors of such purity do with him, having learned he was in some way corrupt? He doubted that they would just give him a ride home. For that, he doubted that they would let him live beyond a few minutes of learning he was so foully deviant.

What was taking so long? He could see the Apothecary was twiddling with the machine and kept putting the blood samples into different ports. Why was this taking so long? Entaris 3 didn't have gene-sampling machinery, but he got the impression it should be a quick process. Shouldn't it?

A tech-servitor trundled by and began making adjustments to the machinery. Apothecary Barst turned and faced the nervous-looking recruits.

"You will report to the Chaplain in the chapel" he said.

"He shall discuss the results of these tests with you there, and begin your education" He drummed his armoured fingers on a surgical table. Pratel wondered how manoeuvrable the glove would be in surgery – or did the Apothecary take his power gloves off when he was operating? Why did he keep thinking? He was glad for his expressionless mask, something he had honed from his experiences in battle in order to keep the men around him steady. He could see (from the corner of his eye, obviously – he wouldn't do anything as overt as look around) that Geravus and Rydel were looking a lot more edgy. Then again, perhaps he was an open book to a Marine.

"Listen carefully" announced the blank, white-armoured medic suddenly "For I will give you directions to the chapel only once – and you will receive no further instruction until you get there"

He proceeded to roll off a series of complex, winding, directions, which all three recruits struggled to commit to memory. Without further ceremony, they were dismissed. The anticlimax was as gut-wrenching as the suspense had been.

The complexity of the instructions meant that the recruits had to talk to each other. For a brief moment, the idea crossed Pratel's mind that perhaps this was intentional, but then he had to focus.

"Was it the left corridor for three turns and then right?" asked Geravus, pausing in the hurried walk they had adopted.

"Right for three and then left" clarified Rydel, as the other two halted just ahead "And then its up the ramp and along four, right?"

Pratel nodded his agreement "Yeah – an aquilla-marked door" he added. He had forgotten about going along four doors after the ramp.

They set off once again, and a quiet settled over the group. They hadn't seen any Imperial Hounds around, though a servitor had trundled past on some obscure task, and Pratel could swear he had heard some odd barking sounds echoing through the steel-clad corridors.

"So" said Geravus, in a tension-breaking manner "I'm gonna frekking double over if I don't learn what those test results were soon"

Pratel chuckled, and Rydel snorted with humour. Suddenly everything seemed a bit easier to cope with.

"Yeah" said Pratel "It's all the worse 'cuz we can't do anything about it"

The others nodded.

Suddenly, Rydel spoke up "You know anything about the Astartes?" he asked. He was looking at Pratel.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Pratel drew on what little he had learnt from the local Schola in Bludreing.

"They are humanity's greatest warriors" he began, adopting the well-known line, then going into greater detail "They patrol the heavens, combating the forces that assail the Imperium" he paused and racked his brains for further details "There are different chapters, I know that much - they have different methods and different styles of combat" The others nodded, and he realised they would probably know about this from their own time in the Scholas.

"I fought alongside their Scouts" he said. This had a bit more of an effect. "They are.. . unique - they have no fear – they don't waver in the line of battle like normal men, they..." he struggled to put into words what he had seen when he fought alongside Sergeant Myrtah and his squad. How did you sum up the ferocity and courage of these super-humans – the way they had raced past obstacles that had halted his men for hours – the way they cut through Ork packs like a knife through butter.

"They can't wait to deal death" he said "They bite at the bit to enforce the Emperor's Will"

There was some silence as this was absorbed. No doubt the others had their own reflections on the Hounds, on how untouchable they seemed.

"What the hell are _we_ going to do here?" asked Rydel, with a sad smirk. Pratel smirked back, while Geravus chuckled openly.

"Die, most likely" Pratel said, as they finally reached the ramp. A sober moment drifted by, counted past by their footsteps. He had intended the statement to be light-hearted, but it had obviously rung true for the young men.

"Still" said Rydel, a serious face drawn "We got picked"

Pratel didn't smile. But he did feel the pride resonate slightly. All three of them had been judged... acceptable. Barely so, perhaps, but still... A brief moment of honesty allowed him to admit that he was probably one of the few living heroes of the Entaris 3 Campaign, and that likely meant that the others were here with him. They were the only people in the universe who could come close to understanding him at the moment, or at any time to follow.

They continued walking in silence. An aquilla-marked door was waiting somewhere up ahead.

***

The battle-barge of the Imperial Hounds 7th Company was named the _Derbus_. Like most battle-barges used by the Adeptus Astartes it was a relatively small craft – barely more than what you'd call an escort ship in size, roughly 4 kilometres of unlovely metal. But, like most battle-barges, it was packed with much more offensive power and armour than any regular ship of its size. It had powerful engines that allowed it to move through the Entaris system quickly.  
As it surged outward, it moved through the debris of the Ork hulks that had brought the greenskin menace to the system. The battle-barges of the Imperial Hounds had made short work of the primitive hulks, despite the massive differences in tonnage.

They had torn the greenskin craft to pieces, circling and snapping with co-ordinated firepower. The Ork's 'techies' had many guns, but little ability to aim them accurately, and even less in the way of shielding. Many naval experts had confessed they were baffled as to how the ragtag xenos vessels held their integrity. The vessels of the Space Marines, however, were tough as well as both accurate and deadly, and what cannonade had managed to impact on them was shrugged off easily. The _Derbus_ had claimed a good few kills in the silent arena of the inner system while the Company had fought planetside. It was a blessing of the Chapter's good relationship with the Adpetus Mechanicus that nearly every Company of the Imperial Hounds had its own battle-barge with which to wreak destruction in the void.

Now the vessel moved proudly through the remnants of its foes, like a warrior striding through the bodies of the fallen on a planetary battlefield. It swept out to the edge of the system, seeking the entrance to the warp that had brought it to the system. A new destination awaited the _Derbus._

The 7th Company had been drawn away from their usual patrol route by the distress call from Entaris. As a Reserve Company designed to support rather than lead, they had called on the assistance of Jalthin's 4th Battle Company before responding to the threat. The quirks of warp-travel had meant that the two battle-barges had arrived at the same time, despite 4th Company having travelled from much further away. Now the Imperial Hounds 7th Company was returning to its route patrolling the somewhat destabilised sub-sector. In their absence, piracy and worse could come to plague the sector's trade-routes, and the Company was charged with preventing exactly that. The Imperial Hounds did not have a home-world, but they had territory which they were responsible for, and they took that responsibility more seriously than some believed possible.

The 4th Company would later follow their path out-system, but the route they took through the warp would be a different one entirely. As a Battle Company their assigned task was a much more hazardous and daring one. While the Reserve Companies secured territory and provided assistance, the Battle Companies took the fight to the Imperium's foes. 4th Company was already receiving transmissions from the Plinthian system on the far edge of the sector, where Eldar raids were mounting on the mining colonies at an alarming rate. Within scant weeks, they would be back into the fray.

***

Chaplain Hyndasin was no less intimidating removed from his skull-masked helmet and polished black power-armour. His iron features had the look of one who was unlikely to tolerate any kind of foolishness or light-heartedness. To compare him to a stern Ecclesiarchy pastor would be a grave under-representation of the Imperial Hound chaplain. His unarmoured form seemed likely to be capable of prising apart Pratel's old pastor like Pratel would a wishbone. A dressing-down from this man was something to be avoided.

The chapel itself was a simpler affair than Pratel had expected. The Imperial Aquilla and other symbols of faith stood alone on plain walls. There was no special ornamentation or architecture to the room, bar the arches over the private alcoves. The three recruits had been coldly instructed to sit cross-legged on the floor while the Chaplain saw to his armour in a seperate room, one which was presumably his private quarters. They had done so in silence, and it seemed obvious that all three young men were still dwelling on the expected results of their medical examination. Pratel sat to the left of the group, with Geravus at his side. The scarred lad was somewhat more charismatic than him and Rydel, and so it seemed natural that he took the central position as a social bridge between them. Not that anyone was being sociable at the moment. Hyndasin had just walked out of his chamber, clad in a simple light-brown robe with the Chapter's wolfhound crest emblazoned on the chest. He seemed if anything more dangerous when thus attired – the Artificer armour let you imagine that there was no human inside at all, but without it, you got to see just how muscular and fearsome the Chaplain himself was, making his impressive height and build somehow much more real and terrifying. The Chaplain swept across the room without looking at them, only deigning to lower his eyes to their level when he was stood directly in front of them.

"I have been informed of your medicae examination results" he said ominously. His tone did not lend Pratel faith.

"The Apothecary assures me you are all free of physical taint" he began. That hurdle, at least, was cleared. Pratel could feel some tension drift away.

"He also reports that you all have a high compatibility with our geneseed" he continued. That sounded like it should be good news to Pratel's ears, but Hyndasin delivered it like they had all failed a test. It seemed there was more to come. Hyndasin faced away from them, turning to regard an Imperial Aquila on the wall.

"That said, there are other factors that cause us concern. You are all past the recommended age for implantation – your bodies are not as adaptable as we would like. Apothecary Dhuy has some skill with handling sub-prime specimens, but there is a likelihood that you will all die on the operating table"

Hyndasin turned back around and glared at them, not angrily, but with some unrelenting suspicion in his eyes.

"If so, I only hope that you have the good grace to die before too much effort is expended on you"

Pratel quelled the anger that had started to rise within him from this sudden beratement. This was something he would have to learn to live with if he was to survive. Although, was it his imagination or had Hyndasin become more hostile since he'd addressed them on the Thunderhawk? He avoided thinking about what Hyndasin had said. Dying on the operating table was a long way from here and now.

A klaxon sounded. Hyndasin did not seem perturbed by this in the slightest.

"You were given your chance to return home" he stated, motioning for them to remain seated.

"If you fail in your training, you will likely die. If you do not die, then you will be judged for your suitability as a Chapter Serf. The same will happen if you change your mind and drop out of the training programme"

His steel gaze locked onto Pratel

"Know now that failure can at best result in a lifetime of humiliated servitude"

"How do we fail?" It was Rydel that had spoke, but Pratel had been forming those exact words himself. Hyndasin did not look best pleased with the interruption.

"The Chapter itself will determine what constitutes failure, it is not necessary for you to know what criteria we judge you by"

That was a little frustrating. They were expected to suceed without being told the rules? Pratel kept his mouth shut. There would be no point in arguing.

A jolt of terror struck him. What if that was a test – was he supposed to show spirit and challenge that ruling? A moment of agony passed as he tried to decide between showing courage and showing obedience. Obedience won out, in the end.

Hyndasin turned his head slightly. Pratel could hear the sound of heavy boots marching out in the corridor. They stopped outside the door.

"The klaxon you hear is an alert" explained Hyndasin "It informs us that the ship is entering the Warp"

Pratel was slightly nervous about that. He knew that interstellar travel was all but impossible without the pathways of the Warp, but he had been raised on tales of the monsters that dwelled in that other-world. Once they had seemed distant threats, ones he would never encounter, but now...

"When you hear the klaxon, you will hasten to join me here in the Chapel, on pain of disciplinary action" said Hyndasin. "I have been tasked with maintaining your spiritual wellbeing throughout your training, and I will not risk you to the insidious predations of any entity that might breach the ship's shielding"

That was an order Pratel reckoned he would have no trouble obeying. Having his mind consumed by the darkness was something he would gladly endure Hyndasin's presence to avoid.

"Now" said Hyndasin, taking the silence to be assent. "There are further tests to be performed shortly, but until the Pack Master arrives from his other duties, I shall make use of the time to begin instructing you. As we travel through the Immaterium, your souls may need re-inforcing as proof against the darkness that dwells there. We will begin with the first of the Chapter's Battle-Litanies, one apt for lowly initiates such as yourselves"

The scarred hand gestured for them to stand. All three of them rose, shooting each other nervous glances.

"Repeat after me" Hyndasin instructed

"_From those who have seen the raging hordes...__"_

_***  
_

_  
_Pack Master Culdor felt refreshed from his devotions to his armour. Space Marines did not need sleep, at least not to the degree normal men did, so their moments of peace often came during the religious ceremonies that permeated their lives, when they could be alone with The Emperor. For an Imperial Hound, tending to the power-armour that embodied the link between each Astartes and their divine progenitor was one such moment, and it was one that allowed you reflect upon matters of conscience, inspired as you were by the genius of The Master's creation.

The rites involved in the maintenance of the armour did little to repair combat damage – such skilled tasks were left to the Company's Techmarines. Instead, it was a Marine's task to check that each component was functioning correctly and well-oiled, that no joints stuck and that all sensory equipment functioned perfectly. Culdor's MkVI armour was of the highest quality, and though he had been the target of barrages of Shoota fire during the campaign on Entaris, there was no damage beyond a few chips out of his breastplate. He could have the Techmarines repair the damage, but he preferred to wait. The damage was superficial, and it paid to show that he actually fought in campaigns.

He turned to regard the Marine beside him. Techmarine Duban was busying himself with the trolley-full of unique gadgets he pushed. The Techmarine was unusually social for one who had studied the lore of the Omnissiah – it was normal for students of the Adeptus Mechanicus to return aloof and superior, but Duban seemed much unchanged from how Culdor remembered him as an initiate – he was friendly and energetic, constantly fiddling with some intricate device or another while joking with the other Hounds.

What fortitude of character it must have taken to endure the schooling of the Mechanicum unchanged, Culdor knew not, but he admired Duban, in his own way. Duban did not seem particularly aware of this – he talked infrequently and joked very little with Culdor, who could never decide if it was because of some personal issue he was unaware of, or simply the age-old problem that he was Pack Master and therefore beyond approach in the eyes of those who did not already know him well.

Duban had greeted him cheerfully enough when he had turned up at the Techmarine's quarters and informed him of the task required, but beyond the odd remark, he had stayed silent the whole time they walked the corridors of the _Derbus. _Culdor was beginning to wonder if he should take the Techmarine aside and find out what the problem was directly – the silence was killing him.

Thankfully, they had reached the chapel. Brother Tans and Brother Mastiff stood sentry outside, their boltguns held at the ready. Strange things could happen during warpcraft, and the protection of the chapel as one of the sites of purity within the _Derbus_ was an important task. Culdor knew that if he was to walk to the brig, the librarium, the cages, the engine room or the vast Imperial Hounds armoury he would find similar sentries standing ready to repulse boarders. Brother Tans stepped forward and waved him over casually, lowering his. Some might consider this a lapse of security, but Culdor was well aware he had already been positively identified – not by sight, because the warplings were adept at fooling the eye, but by scent and by heart. Imperial Hounds instinctively recognised their master.

"Hyndasin's running them through the Litanies" said Tans, his deep voice distorted by his helmet's speakers. "Takes you back, doesn't it?"

"Indeed" Culdor smirked "In fact, it's a good thing you're positioned here, Tans – I seem to remember you mixing up the Thirtieth when we mobilised for Bludreing. Something about 'by the feet of the xenos and the heretic', I believe?"

Tans shuffled his feet, inadvertantly producing sparks in the process. Mastiff was laughing quietly behind his fellow's back. Tans had indeed mixed up that line of the Thirtieth during the engagement, as the whole company was now aware. Brother Mastiff, as a true friend, had wasted no time in spreading the word as the company was shuttled up from the surface following Bludreing.

"Don't remind me, sir" mumbled Tans "Hyndasin's on the warpath, I swear – I think Kullon positioned me here just to see what happens"

Culdor chucked. It seemed plausible enough. He gestured Duban forward with the trolley.

"We're here to give the new blood the test" he said. Tans stood aside hurriedly to avoid being seen as the door opened. From inside came the sound of Hyndasin in Litany-mode.

"..._Shall lie by the feet of the Emperor, and guard against the xenos and the hertic..."_

Culdor would have given anything to see Tan's face at that point. Chuckling, he clapped the Hound on his shoulder-pad and nodded at Mastiff, who was nearly bent double with restaining his mirth, and headed in, with Duban trotting behind him.

***

Pratel was somewhat off-balance. The three Entarisians had stood for what felt like hours in the chapel, reciting and recalling different Litanies, apparently at random. It was more difficult than it sounded seeing as Hyndasin didn't tolerate even the slightest variation, and with only three of them speaking at once, it was impossible to just drone along as Pratel had during most devotions back home. If you messed up, Hyndasin would snarl at you – not figuratively, but literally. He snarled like a wild animal, or a berserk Ork, baring his teeth in your face. It was terrifying, but it made you damned committed to remembering your lines.

Then, just when Pratel had felt he was losing it, the Captain had walked in. Sorry, the 'Pack Master' had walked in – Hyndasin had found the time to give them a snappy overview of Imperial Hound terminology and custom, and would occassionally break from a Litany to growl a question at one of the unsuspecting recruits. Pratel had got lucky so far, though he still couldn't remember what a 'Warhound' was, or how the Pack meetings were arranged.

Behind the Pack Master, whom they had all remembered to drop to their knees for, an enthusiastic-looking Marine had entered, pushing a trolley and with odd mechanical arms attached to his armour. He had proceeded to hand out a variety of devices to the recruits while the Chaplain and Pack Master looked on, telling them to work out how to operate the odd gadgets. Pratel had done pretty well on the first few, but as he progressed he found it became less about logic and more about some kind of mechanical intuition. None of the three had got very far with the range of devices, and Pratel was subjected to the sight of the enthusiasm slipping from the Marine's face, to be instantly replaced by jovial acceptance. Whatever that test had been about, it didn't seem that failing it constituted overall failure. Hyndasin had not looked at all bothered by Pratel's inability to figure out what the device with the four buttons and the rotating arm was for. After the Imperial Hound had left with his trolley, the Chaplain had made an announcement to the effect that they were prohibited from suddenly developing psychic powers during their training, which frankly Pratel didn't understand whatsoever. A short klaxon bleep had sounded, indicating that they had left the Warp. Then the Pack Master had sent them here.

The training-pits had a markedly different feel to the chapel. The ground was packed earth rather than bare steel, cages on every side were occupied with unarmoured Imperial Hounds fighting brutal battles against training servitors and each other, and the whole area stank of blood and sweat. Whereas the chapel had been a place of quiet simplicity, this area seemed well-used and had an air of good-humoured competition. Marines shouted encouragement and insult to each other from the cages, cheering when a brother defeated a foe, and laughing whenever one of their number was hit. The three recruits had wandered to the central chamber as instructed, and now stood wondering what they were meant to do next.

"Perhaps we're meant to use one of the cages?" Geravus suggested, pointing to an unoccupied one nearby.

To Pratel's side, a marine in a cage narrowly dodged a buzz-saw that would have cleaved him in half, then _punched_ the metallic body of the training-servitor that weilded it. Pratel winced.

"I hope not" he said, seeing that the Imperial Hound had in fact managed to severely dent the armoured plating.

Rydel seemed to be of a similar opinion "Perhaps we're meant to fight each other?" he offered, indicating a nearby cage where two marines were doing just that, laughing and baiting each other as they exchanged thunderous blows. The three turned to watch the fight for a moment, then Geravus shook his head.

"Perhaps we're over-thinking it" he said "Perhaps we're just meant to stay here and watch the fighting"

"Possibly" said Pratel, turning away from the fight "There's a door over there though – maybe we're meant to wait for someone?"

No sooner had he suggested it than the door opened and a familiar figure strode through. Sergeant Myrtah was dressed in the robes which Pratel had come to realise were the standard outfit of the Hounds outside of battle. His over-robes were cut short, resting at his thighs and tied close by a belt, and his baggy trousers revealed that his feet were bare, and somewhat hairy. Most of the Hounds around them were dressed similarly, and it seemed that Hyndasin's longer robes were the exception rather than the rule.

"Close, recruit Pratel" he said as he reached them "But i'm not just here to give you curs a chat"

The three recruits gathered in front of him in a semi-circle as he came to a halt. The Scout-sergeant examined them all dispassionately.

"Is this the best we could get?" he muttered audibly, as if they weren't meant to hear it. Pratel wasn't fooled. He knew damn well that Myrtah could be as quiet as a leaf when he wanted to. The grizzled-looking marine let his gaze linger on Pratel a second, then he turned to observe the other two.

"What are your names?" he demanded. Geravus and Rydel responded promptly.

"Okay then, recruits Geravus and Rydel, step back to the edge of the ring" he turned to smile at Pratel, who didn't like the way this was going. The other two backed off, shrugging.

"Pratel, throw your sword to recruit Geravus" he instructed. Pratel did so with some trepidation.

"Good. Now – recruit Pratel here had the pleasure of fighting alongside me on the surface, didn't you, lad? Even assisted me in taking down that greenie Warboss?"

Pratel nodded, though he wouldn't stretch it so far. He had 'assisted' by distracting the Ork in question enough for Myrtah to cripple it and saw its head off.

"Well then, you have an advantage over these young lads here, don't you? You know how I fight"

Pratel nodded. '_Like hell unleashed_ ' he thought to himself.

"I intend to level the playing-field somewhat, Pratel, just so it's fair. I was hoping you could assist me in demonstrating my fighting methods..."

A booming laugh came from one of the cages behind Pratel. It was not in the least reassuring.

Myrtah seemed to be encouraging Pratel to prepare himself to fight, and he did so, shrugging off his jacket and crouching low. He knew he was frekked, but he had to give it a shot.

Myrtah stood idly for a few minutes, then leapt into action at an unnerving rate. Pratel had faced Ork berserkers and won – he had even gone toe-to-toe with a number of fledgling Warbosses during the invasion, but he was simply outclassed by Myrtah. Through sheer luck and hard-won intuition, he managed to avoid some of the initial blows while Myrtah warmed up. The first time he attempted to block a kick the recoil caused him to punch his own face, and only by nearly collapsing on the floor did he avoid the follow-up.

Against the Orks, he had always fought a duel of attrition, blasting them in the face to blind them and then hamstringing them and staying away from their Choppa, diving in to deliver a cut here, a cut there. Here, no such options were available to him, and he wasn't sure they would have worked anyway.

He had precious seconds before Myrtah got him. He rolled and kicked out with a practised move, slamming his boot into Myrtah's knee. On any human opponent, that would have buckled a man's leg. Myrtah merely grunted and kicked back.

The next few seconds were a whirlwind of confusion and pain. When it stopped, Pratel realised he was lying on the floor, which was spinning. There was a shroud of blood around his vision. Somewhere above him he heard Myrtah snort.

"Not a bad attempt, runt, but i'm the Sergeant, not your mother. Come on, you two, lets see if you can work up a sweat on me"

There were hesitant footsteps, and then the sound of heavy impacts. Pratel had a moment to wonder if either of them would outlast him before the darkness came.


	4. Chapter 4

4

_'I saw what horrors man can become  
I saw tentacles, fangs, wings and claws  
__But worst of all, I saw what lay in their eyes  
__I saw Damnation, sire. I saw the terrors of the warp.  
__I am no coward, sire, but I would not return to those streets  
__Not even if you put your own gun to my head.'_

_(Captain Clucion Haldaster, of the Angapolis Uprising)_

Brenson Haldigar was in a rage. Shemar Lucas had worked alongside the captain for nigh on four years now, and it didn't take a psychic to pick apart the man's tells. There was the knotted brow, the red face, the bunched fists... most telling of all, however, was the _look_. Every good officer and official had a _look_, it was essential equipment for dealing with incompetent and insubordinante underlings. But no-one had a _look_ quite like Chief Haldigar. It was the kind of look that said '_I can't believe you're actually capable of breathing and thinking at the same time, you're such a frekking idiot' _with a not-too-gentle overtone of _'Just lean in a little closer. Look at me funny. Breathe out of turn. See what happens'_

Shemar was not currently the recipient of the _look – _that honour was Captain Baritime's. It was early days yet, though – she had just walked in through the door, after all. Baritime had worked for Haldigar even longer than she had, and even their close relationship wasn't protecting him from this chewing-out. No doubt Haldigar had some choice words lined up for her when he had finished with his current victim.

"Three squads, Baritime" The Chief's voice was terse with controlled anger.

"Three. Frekking. Squads."

Shemar quietly moved to stand in a corner, out of the way. The best thing for both her and Baritime would be if she didn't get involved in this discussion.

"Do you want to explain to me, Baritime, how _in the_ _Emperor-Blasted Hells of the Warp _didyou manage to cost this city _more than thirty_ of her best officers in a pre-planned raid on _a piss-ant group of less than a hundred cultists!_"

Baritime shifted uncomfortably and muttered something so quietly that even with her usually acute hearing, Shemar couldn't make it out. The Chief had no such trouble.

"I know about the shitty armour, Baritime. We all knew about the shitty armour. There's gonna be a frekking Inquisitorial ass-rape over the shitty armour, Baritime! But the armour's only there as a back-up when the commander cocks up, Baritime. And guess what? That commander – that frekking retard of a commander, Baritime, is _you! _So I ask you again. How in the Emperor's name did you cost me three frekking squads worth of men!"

Baritime was running his hand through his light-brown hair, a habit he had when he was nervous.

"Well chief" he mumbled "We did it all as planned – teams through the tunnels, heavy squads through the doors, it was just... shitty, chief. They got their shit together too fast for us, and then there was that frekking monster..."

The Chief pounced, a wild gleam in his eye.

"Ahh yes. The frekking monster. The ten-foot-tall mutated frekking monster _that you allowed to escape into my city!_ Regale me with that story again, Baritime? I'm sure i'll need to have it fixed in my memory for when I go to see the Lord-Governer this evening. He'll want to hear every detail while he's sipping his wine and watching his servitors cut my balls off for this warp-damned fiasco!"

Baritime said nothing. It seemed like a good response, considering.

"And that's not the best of it! Do you realise what the sensor sweeps picked up earlier? Heat signatures moving away from the chamber through the old sub-access tunnels!"

Apparently Baritime hadn't heard this yet. His face was a picture of shock and alarm, quickly sinking into a gloomy mask as he realised what this entailed. Shemar knew that if she was to reach out and brush his mind at this moment, she'd find that he was awash with a sense of failure. This was a harsh blow for a career officer like him, but Haldigar didn't relent.

"That's right, Baritime. The frekking cultists got away. So not only do I have to all but enforce martial law while I hunt down that goddamn piece of the warp you let escape, I s_till _have to clean up your mess and hunt down those cultist filth. This was meant to be clean, Baritime! Snip up the bastards in one swoop and have two years purging the mute's and tidying house so we look nice and pretty when the Expedition gets here! You, in one ass-mangle of a blunder, have cost me months off the Lord-Governer's schedule, Baritime!"

Baritime bowed his head.

"Alright then. I'm sick of the sight of you. Get out there and start making the rounds for the funeral. Emperor help you if some sod's widow gets into the armoury again"

Baritime near-enough leapt for the exit, nodding quickly to Shemar as he passed. She could feel the relief washing off him like a physical force. As the door closed, Haldigar turned on her.

"Ahh, Aide Lucas" he said, in a beguilingly pleasant tone. "Take a seat, why don't you?"

She looked fleetingly at the seat Baritime had just risen from.

"I, er... I'd rather stand, chief, if it's all the same"

He smiled in a very forced manner. And blinked. Oh no.

"Sure, Shemar – doesn't matter what _I_ order you to do, does it? Wouldn't like to inconvenience you in any way, would I?"

Oh holy crap. This was going to be bad.

"If you'll just please answer a few teensey questions for me, then, Miss Lucas, I'll let you be on your way, then. I know you have _such _a busy schedule."

Shemar bit the inside of her cheek to brace herself.

"Perhaps we'll start small. You are, Miss Lucas, a psyker?"

Unclench jaw. "Yes, sir" Reclench jaw.

"Oh good – just checking that you hadn't been misleading us, you see. If I may pry a little, is it not true that psykers like yourself are sensitive to the activities of the warp?"

Unclench jaw. "Well- ah... yes, sir"

"Okay, I have to check these things, you see. Now, if psykers are sensitive to the activities of the warp, and you yourself are an Imperium-sanctioned psyker – you are sanctioned, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"Good to hear you got that far. So, if you are a sensitive psyker, Miss Lucas, I must conclude that you had some inkling that the men of my hive-police squads were being roasted to death by warpfire and torn apart by a _warp-spawned monster_ in the early hours of this morning. This fact didn't escape your notice, did it, Miss Lucas? You weren't, perhaps, staring at your shoes the whole time?"

"No sir, I-"

"Good. Now if you may explain to me, _Miss Lucas, _why it is you were not there to lend your support to these men as they were being butchered? Did you perhaps decide that your considerable psychic arsenal would not have been a welcome addition to the assault-squad? Were you having an 'off' day, Miss Lucas?"

Actually, she wasn't sure she would have been much use against what had happened in the raid. But saying that was likely to send the Chief's blood-pressure through the roof.

"Sir, I was – ah -"

"_Late!_ The word you are searching for, Miss Lucas is _late_!"

"Yes sir" she finished lamely.

"You were told to be present at the assembly point at 0100, Miss Lucas. I know this because _I _was the one who told you. _Personally_ insisted on it, if I remember correctly?"

Silence was probably something to cherish right now.

"Seeing as you have yet to demonstrate an ability to turn invisible-"

Oh how she wished!

"- I believe I am correct in saying you _were not_ in fact at the assembly point at 0100, Miss Lucas?"

A very small nod.

"Well then, that begs the question, Miss Lucas, _Where in the seven hells of the frekking warp were you?!_"

Crapocrapocrapocrap.

"I was, ah... en route, sir"

"_En -frekking- route, Shemar, are you FREKKING kidding me?! You didn't turn up until 0230, you worthless pile of bones! Baritime might have frekked everything up, but at least he frekked it up ON TIME!_"

Shemar's pulse was racing. Emperor help her if he found out why she had been late.

"So _why_ were you still dragging your ass through the streets of our fine city at 0200, Shemar? Spot an interesting mutation in the crowd perhaps? Decide to do a bit of shopping?"

Shit.

"I – ah... slept in, chief" she invented desperately. There was a clang. Haldigar had punched the table next to him. There was a dent.

"_YOU FREKKING SLEPT IN!?"_

It was mostly true. She was neglecting to mention that she hadn't been alone in the bed. There had been a nice guy from the bars, they'd got together... she had all but forgotten about the raid until about 0130, when the buzzing from her vox had reminded her and she'd pulled off a blazing retreat and dashed madly for the assembly point. Lost the guy's number, too.

Haldigar was now kicking the table around the room violently, shouting incoherent insults. Shemar stayed very still. Some of the collisions were producing sparks. Finally he let the battered furniture rest and and turned on her. She was receiving one of the worst of his _looks _now_– _at the level where you started to worry that the Chief was capable of actually killing you by wishing it hard enough. She wouldn't want to touch his thoughts right now.

"I _really_ want to fire you, Lucas" he said, settling to a low menace "In fact, I really want to do a lot of things to you right now, most of them far less legal and a lot more sadistic"

She gulped.

"But unfortunately, I need you. We have a goddamn monster to track, cultists to wipe up, and eventually we're going to have to find this 'Under-King' the proles and muties keep alluding to, and burn him. You happen to be the better half of the shit that makes up our sanctioned aides, Shemar, So you keep your job"

Some sort of celebration was in order for that sweet mercy. Later. When she wasn't in danger of being torn limb from limb.

"But I swear, for every minute you're late from now on, I'm gonna cut a finger off your bone-idle hands, Shemar"

Wasn't it odd how she immediately started to wonder what he'd do after she ran out of fingers? Toes, perhaps? The worst seemed to be over now, anyway. Her pulse was returning to normal.

"Right. Seeing as you missed the fun this morning, I want you on the search teams crawling through the sub-accesses after those cultists. With any luck we can get hold of them sharply enough. Get out front and find Sergeant Alixar, you'll be advising his squad. I want this mess cleared up."

Shemar nodded and saluted.

"Thank you, sir" she managed.

"Get out."

***

Mentai Shurlan was getting rather irritated with the men around him. They kept lagging, falling behind, getting in his way, and, most of all- arguing. They were bickering like drunks in a bar, and none of them even seemed to have a valid complaint. The only one who hadn't mouthed off so far was the psyker, who had stayed quite silent throughout the escape. If he had been shot, like Mentai had initially suspected, then he hid it well. He seemed to be carrying something, though, so maybe that was the explanation for his hunched posture. Whatever it was, Mentai felt like suggesting he drop it – the psyker was the slowest-moving of them all, but he didn't dare leave the man behind. As another punch-up broke out between two of the more aggressive cultists, he turned to regard the man, who was staring at something beneath his robe. His face was bathed in odd colours.

Whatever. Mentai had decided some leadership was needed here.

"Psyker" he called out. The man looked up and shielded whatever the source of the light was. Mentai gestured at the rabble in front of him. Weary understanding seemed to cross the man's features. Obviously he too had had enough.

"My name is Kenthus" the psyker addressed him, before stepping forwards to the others.

"Stop this foolishness!" he snapped "We follow Tzeentch, the Great Schemer, not Khorne. Pointless bloodletting will end only in our deaths"

There was silence as the men stared at him. They were a rag-tag bunch, most of them ex-brawlers or sadists drawn by the promise of power and group violence. Some were injured, others were healthy. Some were unarmed, having lost their weapons during or after the raid on the ceremony, while others had mysteriously full clips. All of them were on edge, and it appeared that until now none of them but Mentai had realised that the sorcerer was even there.  
"We need to head for the sewage levels" Kenthus stated firmly, apparently oblivious to the hostile atmosphere. No-one moved.

There was a long, awkward, silence.

"Well come on!" tried Kenthus. It was unfortunate for him that his voice squawked slightly as he said it. A hulk of a man, named Gen because it was assumed he was genetically enhanced, took his cue to take a step towards Kenthus.

"It's your type that got us all into this" he said belligerently "You got my mates killed with your sneaking and your sorcery"

Kenthus looked alarmed and intimidated. Obviously he hadn't been one of the higher-ranking psykers in the cult, or he'd have this under control by now.

"You need to respect my authority" he said. Mentai winced. That was an incomprehensibly stupid thing to say to a usurptious brute like Gen. The follow-up was no better.

"Only I can bring our plans to fruition now. The Changer of Ways has me as his sole agent. You must protect me at all costs"

Gen sneered at the smaller man, a combat knife appearing in his hand.

"I don't give a shit about your plans, shitface. And I reckon there ain't gonna be a whole lot of protecting you when I start cutting your flesh"

There were a couple of chuckles at that. Kenthus stepped back. This was getting out of hand. Mentai needed to do something or everything was going to fall apart. He was not going back to pretending he believed in the power of a dead man. Nor was he going to the Inquisition's cells.

"That's where you're wrong, Gen" he said, laspistol trained on the big man's shaven skull. Kenthus looked horribly relieved.

Gen frowned at Mentai.

"You don't want to do this, Ment' – I ain't gotta quarrel with yah"

It was odd how free of fear he felt – normally he would be crapping himself facing off against a guy like Gen, but he was disconcertingly calm.

"We'll have a problem if you touch the psyker, Gen, we need him"

There was a murmur of discontent from the crowd. Gen took his cue from them.

"Come off it, Ment'. You saved our asses back there, don't go making me gut you now."

Mentai said nothing, keeping his aim steady. It would be tempting to side with his fellows if it wasn't for the fact that he knew there was no hope for the cult without the psyker. Again he mused on how oddly free of fear he felt. Perhaps the battle had hardened him – he had killed his fair share of dangerous men, after all. Was this what it felt like to have confidence?

Gen sighed and lowered his knife. Mentai lowered his weapon as well. The others looked on. Gen made to sheath his knife.

"Fine, then, if you-"

It was remarkably simple to step away from the sudden thrust and bat Gen's arm away. Mentai wondered how the man had ever killed anyone with the clumsy move. His laspistol burned a crispy hole right through Gen's chest. The crumpling cultist just about had time to gasp with pain before he expired. The shaven head lay at Mentai's feet.

Everyone was very still. This was one of those moments where it could all go either way.

He put the pistol away. They had seen him use it, and he couldn't shoot them all if they turned on him.

"Sorry, Gen" he said. "I warned you"

It seemed to work. Kenthus stepped forward again.

"The sewer level accesses are on our left at the next turn" he stated, obviously somewhat shaken. There was a shuffling of feet, then people started to move.

The old Mentai would have sighed with relief. This one didn't need to. It was starting to bug him.

***

Kenthus kept them on track using some sort of unnatural internal compass. It was somewhat unnerving to hear him shouting out directions before they even came on the turns, but they soon got used to it. They had picked up the pace, too – sounds echoing from far down the abandoned tunnels seemed to indicate they were being pursued.

"Left!" came the call. A few seconds later they found the turn. The walls down here were worryingly alike – if you weren't careful you could easily get lost and just wander the miles of sub-access tunnels that wove under the city, until you eventually starved to death in some forgotten corner.

The pong of the sewers was getting closer, so it seemed that Kenthus knew what he was talking about. Mentai had heard it said that these tunnels ran everywhere in the hive, from the sewage-processing levels where it was rumoured the great Under-King of the mutant sub-humans reigned, to the Governer's palace. It was merely speculation, of course, no-one really knew how far these old construction tunnels went. Presumably there was an old plan of the city that detailed the tunnels, but Mentai had never heard of anyone who'd seen it. The cultists had used these tunnels before, to stay out of sight, but it was with the help of the sorcerers like Kenthus that they got their directions. Criminals of other natures occasionally cut through or hid out here, but only along the paths they had uncovered themselves, with generations of careful exploration feeding the construction of sketchy underground maps.

They raced on, jogging quickly in order to keep a strong, maintainable pace. The stench of sewage was rising to intolerable heights, and Mentai began to wish he could cover his mouth to halt the smell. Eventually, they reached a small opening, barely large enough for a single man to pass at a time. As one man, the cultists paused and glanced at Kenthus, who had fallen to the back of the group during the flight. He was bent double, apparently struggling for breath.

"Through there" he confirmed between gasps, pointing at the opening. There was a general sense of hesitancy from the men. Mentai could understand that – they had no guarantees that they had been heading in the right direction, or even that Kenthus had a specific location in mind. The hole stank, and a sense of claustrophobia was beginning to settle even on Mentai. They were very deep below the city now, and the physical weight above them seemed to be becoming a psychological one. Kenthus seemed to grasp the situation quickly this time.

"That hole leads to a sewer inlet for the processing engines" he explained to the reluctant group. "From there we can reach the lower tunnels and the mutants who dwell there. The upper echelons of the cult maintain a certain... relationship... with the mutants. They should shelter us for the time being"

People looked at each other

"Mutants?" one of the cult queried. "Like the Under-King?"

Kenthus sighed. "That is the name of their leader, yes. We have arrangements, business dealings – I promise you, we will be safer there than anywhere on the surface"

Mentai was sold. The hive-police could find you anywhere in the city, that was well-known. If the mutants would shelter them, he wasn't going to get picky over physical appearances. After all, he was in no place to judge. His soul was probably as least as 'damned' as theirs in the eyes of the Ecclesiarchy.

A buzzing sound suddenly resounded in the confines of the corridor.

"Drone!" someone shouted urgently. Mentai spun to see a hive-police hunter drone hovering in the corridor behind him. The drones were rarely used on normal occasions, as the city's Adeptus Mechanicus adepts felt it disrespectful to trouble the machine-spirits for the purpose of pursuing of lowly criminals. But every citizen knew their deadly efficiency – you would see them, from time to time, zipping through the streets in pursuit of some dangerous or high-profile suspect. Through the wonders of Imperial technomancy, they somehow acted as eyes for the hive-police. If they saw you, the hive-police saw you. And that was not all. Each drone was armed.

The group reacted quickly. Within seconds, a blister of las-beams and bullets had torn the thing apart. But even in that short space of time, it had spat a number of low-caliber bullets into two unlucky men, now lying still on the floor. Their blood seeped out of them and began to pool. Given a minute more, the drone's mounted gun could have sawn the whole close-packed group apart with as little effort and no remorse. Even now angry sparks flew from its remains, forcing the men to step back. But the thing's death didn't mean they were safe.

"Through the hole" Mentai commanded. Some were already rushing to it anyway, having figured out what the drone meant. The hive-police were closing on them. The only way out was forward and downward.

***

"Sector 145/A" droned the tech-adept assigned to Shemar's squad, massaging a hand-held control. The drone accompanying them began to move, though not at the hurtling pace the first one had raced off at. The intention seemed to be that they follow. Alixar communicated the information over the vox and got the squad moving while Shemar reluctantly fell in step with the adept, sheltering behind the hulking forms of the armed officers.

Technically, she supposed that they were in the same boat – both she and... him? It? -Both of them were additions to the squad simply because of their unique talents. Her own psychic potency, and his... She found herself struggling for a way to describe it. It wasn't as if the Mechanicum were entirely abnormal in their mechanical augmentations. Many high-ranking government officials and functionaries had similar adaptions. Even the commanders of the Guard regiments were augmented. Yet there was a difference. The other people she had seen with augmentations were just that – people. Altered and sometimes a bit disturbing, but still recognizably people, with human attitudes and emotions. The devotees of the Machine-God, however, were something else. She let her gift wash out to touch the silent, hooded adept. His mind was cold. Cold and unbelievably free of emotion, creativity – only the barest sparks of humanity seperated this man from the machines he controlled. Still, it must have its benefits. The other men in the squad were nervous and pent with tension as they hurried after the drone – she didn't need to pay any particular attention to their thoughts to pick that up. Some of the more experienced, like Alixar, had their emotions under control, choking rash thought-processes with discipline. The adept seemed to have no need of discipline. He was not afraid, not apprehensive, not even excited. He was simply not affected by the tension, and that was an oddly chilling thing for a telepath such as Shemar to discover.

"I thought these tunnels were unmapped" she said to him, to distract herself. His mind danced in an oddly unreadable way as he processed what she had said.

"Expand" he said in a metallic rasp.

"You quoted a map-reference, didn't you?" she asked. Again the frustrating dance. Synapses firing in on/off pulses rather than cross-connecting. This man didn't think like a human.

"We make use of an artificial grid for the purposes of drone location" he explained.

"The downed drone is at grid location 145/A. There is no need for a topographical map"

"Ah" she replied "That makes sense, I guess"

There was no reply. Apparently he didn't do small-talk.

"I'll just.." Seeing no resistance, she moved away from the adept, pushing through the squad to find Alixar and some more human company. A couple of the men smiled at her as she passed them and she was careful to smile back. They saw her girlish smile and regarded her as a weak woman-figure, to be protected. That she would need their help was absurd, in reality, but always an image to be cultivated when going into a firefight. No matter how confident of her abilities she was, it always payed to have six or seven heavily-armed men looking out for her. And then there were always the romantic possibilities of the 'save me' image...

She drew level with Alixar just as he finished with a vox communication.

"The other squads are converging behind us" he said to her "We should have support a couple of minutes behind us if we run into trouble"

"Good to know" she said, smiling at him extra-sweetly. Alixar had been proving a bit of an intrigue over the past few months – she knew he liked her, and he was unattached, but he never let any sign of it slip, though he must know that she could pick the thoughts out of his mind. However, it was oddities like that that kept her interested.

He glanced back at where she had been by the tech-priest.

"Bit creepy, isn't he?" he stated. She nodded and shivered.

"You don't know the half of it" she replied, noting the protective overtone to his thoughts provoked by her reaction.

"At least he's getting us there, though" Alixar said, inclining his head toward the drone which was slowly leading the squad through the labyrinth of underground tunnels. Shemar was prepared to admit that the tactical advantage was worth a little creepiness. Without the drone's discovery, this search could have taken weeks. Now they had the cultists' trail, they could be on them in under an hour. Then again, the squad was barely moving above a walk at the moment. Who was to say the trail wouldn't be cold by the time they got there?

"Say" she called back to the adept, affecting a casual attitude "Isn't there some way we can speed this thing up?"

There was a squadwide grumble to the effect that this would be desirable.

"Complying with your request" came the reply a moment later. The drone paused momentarily, then started to move at an increased velocity. Vastly increased. Cursing, the squad hurried to keep up as the machine whizzed down corridors and off at tangents. Irritating as it was trying to catch up, they were certainly making good time.

They reached the downed drone in under ten minutes. The second drone moved to hover over its companion, circling it lazily, as if it was mourning the loss of a brother. Two cultists lay dead nearby, a slick of blood joining the two bodies. The air was pungent, and not just with the scent of blood.

"Sewer entrance" said Alixar, pointing at the opening. The sound and smell from within supported his statement. There were three main sewage lines that ran under the city, mostly inaccessible from the surface. It was said that the only sure way to lose something in the city was to flush it – the pipes all just fed these antiquated sewage lines, which in turn ran to the reprocessing plants and back up to the city as drinking water. The whole thing was operated and maintained by an automated system – the only time Shemar had seen anything come out of the sewers was when Mechanicum adepts had called up the repair-servitors for maintenance. But it seemed obvious that the cultists had gone through here. Which meant that they had to follow.

Everyone was looking at the hole dispassionately. Trudging through sewage was not what they had envisioned when they signed up. Shemar damn well hadn't, at any rate.

"No sense putting it off" Alixar decided aloud, moving to the entrance. "At least this way chief can never claim we're not committed to the job"

A couple of people chuckled. Shemar concentrated on making sure her leggings were securely tucked over her boots while the carapace-armoured men clambered through. The tech adept sent the drone surging through the gap after the men, then followed without hesitation. Shemar clambered after him with more reluctance. The opening proved to be something of a short pipe, and the slick metal was coated with some foul-smelling substance whose origins she preferred not to think about. Undoubtedly she'd need a new outfit after this.

The other end of the pipe opened into the sewer. Shemar wasn't sure what she'd expected, but this wasn't it. Sewage flowed like a canal through the centre of the huge pipe-like tunnel. To either side, accumulated muck and dirt had formed an almost-natural looking bank of earth, beneath which the original metal plating was barely visible. Luminous fungal plants provided a surprising amount of light to see by. The squad stood around in various stages of bemusement.

"Hey, sarge" one of the men said, approaching one of the glowing mushrooms. "This looks like it might be made of _squidi, _don't yah think?"

Alixar examined the specimen. "You might be right, Jarren" he replied. "Aide Lucas?"

Shemar brushed some of the muck off her blouse and wandered over. It didn't take long for her to reach a conclusion.

"Looks like it to me" she agreed. _Squidi_ was a popular narcotic among the proles, and, if they were honest, the upper classes too. It was mostly attractive because it enduced a relaxed sensation while summoning otherwise-terrifying hallucinations. Shemar had tried it a few times. The first time had had her laughing at some monstrous construct her imagination had put together. The second time, she had accidentally broadcast the image to the minds of others around her, and there had been a small panic.

"Looks like a few _squidi_ farms' worth" she commented, pointing to where the tunnel curved and the glow could be seen from behind the bend.

"Could be a fortune's worth down here" breathed a younger recruit. Shemar snapped her head around as she caught the train of his thought.

"_Don't even think it" _she advised him silently, watching the shocked double-take he did and nodding at him to show that she had indeed sent that message. He gulped and she could sense he was overcome with a shocked guilt. She was inclined to let the kid off for the thought– a fortune like this was a massive temptation for someone so young. She wasn't completely sure she hadn't been headed down that path herself.

No-one else seemed to notice, which was a bit of a godsend for the kid. Alixar had lost a good few friends to addicts and dealers – if there was anyone more likely to bust your ass over dealing than him, it was Haldigar himself.

"No time to stop and smell the roses" Alixar snapped. "Let's get on that trail"

***

By Mentai's reckoning, they were only a few hundred yards from the sewer entrance when they were confronted. He had been aware of a presence in the sewage alongside for a while, but he had thought it merely some kind of mindless fish or ampihibian. When the filth suddenly surged and a human-like figure emerged, he was almost as surprised as the rest of the cult. When thirty or so _other_ creatures appeared from the roof, floor and walls around them, he was exactly as surprised, and somewhat impressed. The cultists were surrounded in one swift, well-executed move, their devolved opponents rearing up on mutated limbs to weild pieces of piping and menacing claws.

Mutants. Everyone had heard of them – or knew someone who knew one personally, or had seen something they would swear was one, but very few people had ever been in a situation like this, face to deformed face at five paces. Men swung their guns up, ready to fire, but Mentai knew it would be too late to tumble the odds here.

"Do not shoot" snapped Kenthus. The situation seemed to demand compliance, so Mentai added weight to the order.

"The first man to shoot, I shoot" he threatened, glaring at those around him who looked most edgy, his laspistol primed to fire. He had no idea how much charge the cell in the weapon had left, but it seemed likely he had at least one. People withered under his gaze. Odd how that was all it took, a threat and a look. His new-found confidence was doing more to advance him than any amount of ability ever could have.

Seeing that everyone was at least holding their fire, he turned to the front, where he could see Kenthus approaching the hunched human figure that had burst from the sewage. From somewhere, the creature had produced a knocked-together device that was immistakably a home-made flamer. As he watched, the pilot light flickered on. Around them, the other creatures stood ready, apparently awaiting an order to attack. Not that it would be necessary. With one gout from that flamer, most of the closely-grouped cult would be down.

"Why do you come here, humans" spat the figure in heavily accented Low Gothic. "This is not your land, down here"

Kenthus pushed himself clear of the cultists.

"We are emissaries of the cult of the Changer of Ways" he said, bowing deeply. "We come to you in friendship, to invite you to share in our glories. Your Under-King has had many fond words and gifts from our leaders, and we beseech an audience with him"

The creature hissed.

"Your kind has only been allowed here fleetingly, cultist, and then only one man at a time. What makes you think that these arrangements have changed? Are your minds rotten from the sorcery? Or are these others offerings for us to snack upon?"

Kenthus turned to look at the group behind him, a calculating look in his eye. '_He's wondering if he can afford to get rid of us'_ Mentai realised. Gently, almost without moving, he shifted his weapon so that it was pointed directly at the sorcerer's back. If nothing else, he would end the man's life if he betrayed them all. Was it his imagination, or did Kenthus' gaze flicker to the pistol for a second before he turned back to the mutant leader.

"We bring a most valuable artifact to the Under-King" he replied "As part of the new arrangement our leaders seek to strike with our mutated kinsmen, these men come as an honour-guard, to fight alongside you in the coming Days of Change. Our prize is so great that we have had to battle our way here – but now we are battle-weary and our pursuers draw closer. If you do not take us to seek audience now, the Days of Change may never come"

A convincing lie, to Mentai's ears. It explained why they were armed, and also why they were wounded and tired, and would hopefully see them clear of their pursuers. But whatever else the hunched mutant guardian might be, it seemed a fool it was not.

"Show me this artifact you claim to bring" it said, a line of spittle dangling from a deformed mouth, the nozzle of the flamer not twitching.

Kenthus carefully reached into his robes, provoking hisses and warning movements from some of the mutations around him. The noises faded as he produced what he was carrying.

It was an ovoid of pure beauty. Smooth to the point of perfection, it seemed to distort the colours of the world around it. Blues and greens, purples and reds, they all rippled across its surface, accompanied by colours that seemed only to exist on that perfect surface. There was an intake of breath from everyone as it pulsed, gently. Croaks of wonder came from the mutants, and some of them slithered and limped closer to the artifact.

Mentai could understand their need – he himself wanted to be closer to it, to wrap himself around it and feel its colour wash over him. Kenthus must have been carrying it since the ceremony, the selfish fekker. He should have shared it – he should have shown them all the glory of what he carried. That would have stopped all the bickering and violence along the way – they would have gladly followed him anywhere, if they had known about... this.

The flamer-bearer was gawking openly.

"You will take us to see the Under-King?" asked Kenthus. The creature nodded, seemingly hypnotised by the pulsating colours.

"Yes, Sire... I -"

A series of loud blasts interrupted him. Gunfire. Mentai spun and saw that several mutants and cultists were down. Hive-police had found them. Ten armoured figures, and two others. He shouted a warning as he began to return fire. At this range, his las blasts simply hissed off the men's armour. Another volley hammered into them. A man right next to Mentai was torn apart by sucessive blasts. Mentai bent to pick up his autogun and felt shells shoot over him, missing his back by inches. Other cultists were returning fire now, forcing those assaulting them to pause and take cover. Kenthus was muttering something, gesturing in the air, the egg-like artifact returned to his robes. Flames seemed to grow out of nowhere, congealing around his hand. With a brushing gesture, the fire shot from his hands and towards the men further down the pipe. Mutants, hissing with blood-frenzy, raced after it, blocking the result of the spell from his view. Mentai found that someone was tugging on his sleeve.

"You come" squeaked a runtish creature with puffy lips and an axelike bone protruding from its skull. It pointed to where the flamer-creature was leading Kenthus and the other cultists away from the battle. It seemed that they were to be saved. With a last crackle of gunfire. Mentai followed them. The mutants remained behind, hurtling towards the new intruders.

***

Shemar had felt the attack coming before she had seen it. The sorcerer down the tunnel hadn't even attempted to mask his spell – it seemed he hadn't expected any of his foes to be psykers. Nonetheless, it had not been an easy matter to counter the fireball. She could have shielded herself from the fire with the minimum of effort, and let the men around her whether the attack on their armour, but she knew that recently the carapace armour they were issued with had been displaying numerous fagilities. Not that that was the only reason. She might be self-involved, but she liked to think that she did care for those around her. Okay, maybe not the adept, but he was stood right next to Alixar. She had forced her way to the front the moment the attack had been unleashed, and raised a psychic barrier against it. It took a great deal of effort to maintain a barrier of this size, especially when she had to contend with the lasblasts and autogun fire that was also coming this way. But she was one of the best. Once the firey attack had been safely deflected, she shattered the barrier into shrapnel-like balls of psychic energy, sending them flying into the crowd of mutants that was fast approaching. Heads and twisted torsos exploded. Limbs were torn from bodies. The charge faltered. Shemar smiled evilly. People never saw her coming.

Something was pushing the horrific mutants on, however. Somehow they regrouped in the face of the sustained fire from Alixar's squad, and pushed closer. Quickly, she drew her pistol and fired into the onrushing mass at the two closest targets. One one-eyed creature choked and gargled blood as her bullet hit its throat, but the other, a tentacled mass on hairy, stumped legs, seemed unbothered by the impacts, and barrelled right into her, its hooked tentacles grasping at her legs and flipping her over. Her intention was to shoot the beast from the ground, but it seemed she had misjudged her position, as she plummetted further than seemed right, and when she landed, it was not on anything solid.

Thrashing, she managed to keep her head above the sewage, and watched helplessly as the battle played out around her. Less than half the mutations had made it to attack range, but that might well have proven enough if it wasn't for the tech-priest. The hovering hunter drone spun through the battle as men wrestled with abhuman opponents, spitting fire into heaving backs and splitting. The tech -adept followed, lashing out with a razor-edged mechanical arm to sever thrashing tentacles. Men unloaded their shotguns into opponents at point-blank range, spilling blood and ichor on the crud-stained walls. Shemar saw Alixar stave in a dwarf's head with the stock of his gun, then unload it into the squidlike maw of the next beast. A man cried out as a bony claw pierced his chest armour, only to have the tech-adept slash the offending limb in half. The men managed to group together to finish the last of them off. Very quickly, as with all close-quarters combat, it was all over.

And then she had to get them to get her out of the damned sewage.

***

She had expected Haldigar to be mad, to rant at her about incompetence and failure. But when she eventually dragged herself out of the shower room and down to his office, he seemed in quite a good mood.

"Good work out there, Shemar" he said, having dropped the formal 'Miss Lucas' act. He stood from his desk and clapped her on the shoulder, smiling at her confusion and then wrinkling his nose at her odour.

"You've not only chased them into a hole they can't bolt from, you've led us right to that self-styled mutant King as well, Shemar – I was expecting a long chase for this result, but you go and hand it to me on day one. So good work, I say."

It was really tempting to let that appraisal stand, but...

"Well it was really the drones that found them, chief, not me – I just kinda got kicked in the shit, chief"

He rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, i'll be sure to thank our friends at the Adeptus Mechanicum, Shemar – they're always so cheerful when they hear about a job well done"

She smirked uncomfortably. Haldigar sat back down.

"Take it as a free ticket back into my good books, Shemar. And go have a shower. I'm moving you off the cultist search now we've got their location pinned. It's just grunt work now anyway. I want you tracking that damned warp-beast. Seeing as you have such an appreciation for their abilities, i'll be having the tech-men assist you in the search."

Shemar groaned, the beginnings of a plea forming on her tongue.

"No protests. Governer's instructions – the best we have, Shemar. And seeing as I haven't got a spare psyker-aide to read my tarot by, you'll have to do"

"But chief-"

"Don't want to hear it, Shemar. You get to work with the metal-men. Now get out."

--- Author's Note ---

Reviews! I must feed on reviews!


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